


Dreams in the Way

by janescott



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Basically a small snapshot of Jim and Bill at Oxford. It's ... angsty porn sort of? All errors are mine. Thanks to magenta and fiarra for the beta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams in the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Fan fiction for fun only. The originals belong to Mr John LeCarre. I'm just playing with the action figures for a while :-)

They meet at Oxford. It’s a party in the off-campus flat of a friend of a friend of someone Jim has a passing acquaintance with in one of his lectures.

Jim’s 18, has been at Oxford for two months, and feels like a landed fish every day; gasping for air. He expects to find it overwhelming; of course he does. He’s away from home for the first time, he’s at _Oxford_ to read law and politics … he’s a good student. Goes to his lectures, writes his essays; reads his assigned texts.

He makes tentative friends with a couple of the other new students at his college, and he feels good. Well, as good as a fish out of water can feel. But under that - under the extreme pressure of _everything_ , Jim feels a soaring freedom. Until now, he’s gone to his lectures, kept up with his coursework, rung his father every Sunday night; even offered to tutor a classmate in French. When that same friend invites him to the party, it’s on the tip of his tongue to say no; that he still has a heap of reading to do for his lectures, he’s swamped …

“Yes,” is what comes out instead, and that leads to Jim meeting Bill Haydon, his first kiss, and his first hangover.

He finds himself crowded into a dark corner of the flat; one of four in a converted old house full of shadowy nooks and crannies, perfect for young bodies - a lot away from home for the first time, packed with hormones - to tangle up together.

The other boy’s - Bill’s - mouth is hot and sweet; though it tastes like warm beer and cigarettes. He’s got his hands around Jim’s neck, his fingers teasing at the short hairs at the base and Jim feels a little bit dizzy. It’s the booze and the boy and the lack of air and, god, _everything_.

Bill pulls back, but only to mouth at Jim’s neck and that - that’s unspeakable. That shouldn’t be allowed. His thoughts, his focus, everything fragments and then coalesces again and he’s so hard he’s not sure he could walk under his own steam right now.

He pushes weakly at Bill’s shoulder. “St-stop. You, ah, Bill. St-”

Bill leans back slightly and Jim can see the smile curling up at the corner of his eyes.

“You know my name.”

Jim swallows, his throat dry, his head already a little rocky from too many beers consumed in too short a period of time. He blinks and shifts his feet, biting back a groan as the friction makes the fabric of his trousers rub against his cock; rock-hard. “I. Uhm. Everyone knows your name,” he says, suddenly shy; feeling his face heat up under Bill’s gaze.

And it’s true; even though it’s a mortifying thing to say out loud. Especially - somehow - when they’re pressed into this dark corner and Jim is biting down hard on his bottom lip so he doesn’t just come from the friction because at the moment that’s very likely, especially if Bill keeps _looking_ at him that way. Bill - who is three years older than Jim - _shines_ at Oxford; he’s popular and clever and goodlooking and all the things that Jim is sure he will never be. He’s smart and he’s steady and he’s making friends but he will never ever be anything like Bill.

He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or envious.

Bill leans in close, again, his breath right against Jim’s ear. He starts counting backwards from 100 in French. “So what’s yours? Name, I mean,” he says, as he slides his hand under Jim’s shirt, fingers insistent and tugging at his undershirt, finally laying a warm palm against Jim’s bare back.

 _cent, quatre-vingt-dix-neuf, quatre-vingt-dix-huit … ohfuck_

 

“I. Uh. It’s Jim. Jim, uh, Prideaux.”

Bill’s mouth is on his neck again, his hands both on the small of Jim’s back now; pinning him against the wall and holding him up. Jim groans, and sinks his own hands into Bill’s hair, needing him closer, needing friction, needing -

His body betrays him, and he’s coming before he realises it, practically _rubbing off_ against Bill’s thigh. He feels his face flush red and drops his head, his forehead meeting Bill’s shoulder as he lets his arms fall to his sides. If the floor were to open up right now, _right now_ \- Jim wills as hard as he can - he wouldn’t have any objections, he wants to melt into nothing and disappear.

Somehow, he finds his voice.

“I - I’m. Um. Sorry. About that.”

Bill just laughs and starts pressing small, close-mouthed kisses all over his face and neck. “Oh. You’re perfect. Wonderful.”

Jim feels none of those things. He feels sticky and dizzy and slightly ashamed. He starts to pull back, to pull away but Bill grips him around the waist even tighter.

“No; no. I’m not letting you go, so you can go and, and rationalise this away as a drunken _mistake_ and find some nice girl that you can take home to your parents - ” Bill stops and takes a deep breath, his long exhale tickling against Jim’s neck. Jim lifts his head and meets Bill’s steady gaze.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just - I’m dizzy, and drunk and. I’ve never. I mean. I’ve _never_.”

Something hard around Bill’s mouth and eyes softens when he takes in the implication of Jim’s words. “You’ve - you’re. Oh. Oh that’s. That’s lovely.”

Jim is braced for sarcasm; to be mocked for it all, but Bill’s voice is soft and his hands are gentle on Jim’s skin.

“My friends live in the flat upstairs. It’s empty right now because they’re all down here. We could go up; get you cleaned up... carry on if you want to … _I_ want to,” he says softly, guiding Jim’s hand to his own jean-clad hard-on which feels hot and heavy under Jim’s palm.

He could leave, he realises. He could take back his hand, say no, thank you, but I need to get going, and Bill will let him go. Bill will let him go, and go and find some other … willing, friendly hand, but Jim will never see Bill again, except as some distant, cold star and he already knows he can’t bear for that to happen. That somehow Bill is already insinuating himself into Jim’s life, even though they’ve only just met; like ivy creeping up the side of a house.

Gathering the shreds of his courage and whatever sense he might have remaining in his head, Jim presses his palm against the hard press of Bill’s fly, earning a surprised groan.

“Yes,” he says. “I want to.”

Years later, they both tell a slightly different story of how they met at a party at Oxford.

That first night, in Bill’s friend’s flat, nothing much more happens. Bill helps Jim to clean up, and shows him how to reciprocate, gently wrapping Jim’s fingers around his own cock, hard and slippery. Jim strokes it, fascinated; staring at Bill’s fingers laced through his own, caught on Bill’s voice hushed in his ear telling him what to do; his quiet groan as he comes all over their linked fingers.

After that first night, Jim finds himself embedded in Bill’s life so solidly, it feels like he’s always been there.

Jim’s life takes on a new shape then, but it happens so slowly that he barely notices it. Bill has a wide and varied circle of friends who - after some mild teasing of Bill bringing a first year into their close ranks - accept Jim and treat him like he’s part of Bill’s furniture.

Which he sort of supposes he is, he thinks a few weeks later. It’s Saturday afternoon and he’s tucked up on Bill’s bed in his room; reading the chapter he needs to finish his essay that’s due on Tuesday. Bill’s sitting in a hardback chair that’s tilted so the back is resting against his desk and his legs are propped on the bed, near Jim’s hip.

He’s reading something as well; that Jim assumes is for one of his lectures, but he keeps sneaking glances at Jim from under his eyelashes, a small smirk playing about the corners of his mouth.

Eventually Jim puts his book down on the bed beside him, carefully marking his chapter first. A little shy around Bill, still, he carefully wraps his fingers around Bill’s ankle. “All right. What. What is it? You keep giving me this look and i can’t concentrate on my work.”

Bill doesn’t say anything but easily breaks Jim’s hold, swings his legs down and shifts until he’s straddling Jim, on the bed, his mouth inches away. Jim reflexively curls his hands around Bill’s waist, but doesn’t move otherwise. Bill makes him feel big sometimes, clumsy and young, his limbs awkward, his tongue thick in his mouth, but _god_ his heart is already beating faster and he can feel his cock thickening against the fabric of his trousers.

Then Bill’s mouth is on his and Jim starts to relax, because this is familiar, and it’s good. Bill shifts them subtly until Jim’s flat on his back on the bed, Bill settled above him, their legs tangled. Jim pushes up with his hips, seeking friction and feels Bill smile into his mouth as their jean-clad hard-ons rub press together.

“Jim, god Jim, I want, I want … can I fuck you, please, god …”

Bill’s hands are under Jim’s shirt, pushing up, his fingers grazing against the soft skin of Jim’s flat stomach. Jim groans and pushes up, again, his own hands curled around Bill’s biceps, the shift and play of muscles under his fingers like music as Bill moves above him, always restless.

“Yes, fuck - yes. Please. Bill.”

He feels a rush of something - adrenaline and nerves, which makes him feel lightheaded. It’s been all hands and mouths; whispers in the dark and quiet words until now.

But now, _now_ Bill reaches into his bedside table and drops a bottle of something on the bed, before pushing at Jim’s shirt until he pulls it over his head, dropping it on the floor. Clothes are shed like second skin; like the everyday disguise they are, until they’re both naked on the rumpled covers of Bill’s bed.

Bill covers Jim’s body with his own, and Jim feels weighted and weightless at the same time; held in place by Bill’s hands, his mouth … everything. He tilts his head up in silent invitation and Bill’s mouth quirks into a small smile.

They start kissing then, and Jim loves it; loves kissing Bill. He’s soon lost in a blur of Bill’s mouth and tongue, which makes him feel wanton and somehow free.

He groans into Bill’s mouth, shameless as he can be when it’s just the two of them behind Bill’s locked door. He touches as much as he can, letting his hands roam over Bill’s back; the curve of his ass, the tops of his thighs. Bill shifts until he’s settled between Jim’s legs, his eyes roving over Jim’s body. Jim bites his lip and moves on the bed, restless. He lets his hands drop to the bed and digs his fingers into the sheet, cotton wrinkling and winding as he tightens and releases his grip.

Bill’s fingers - slick and warm - are familiar; his mouth pressed against Jim’s neck, low, hot words whispered into his shoulder; these are things that Jim knows like he knows where to touch Bill on the back of his neck to make him shudder; which part of his neck to press his mouth to; where to scrape his teeth …

Bill opens him up slowly, fucking him leisurely with his fingers until Jim feels like he’s going to separate from his body altogether and come until he sees stars, or passes out.

He doesn’t hear Bill ask, at first, his voice right against Jim’s ear; his fingers moving ceaselessly, pressing against the spot inside that makes him see sparks behind his eyelids. He feels Bill laugh against his ear and say, “Are you ready for me?”

Jim’s forgotten how to speak, his words are dry in his throat and all he can do is nod; before closing his eyes. Bill murmurs something else against his skin, a tickle on the sensitive skin of his neck that makes Jim arch; pushing his body up towards Bill while his hands stay tangled in the sheets.

“Tell - you’ll have to, uh, tell me if I hurt you …”

Jim nods again, opening his eyes to find Bill smiling down at him, his hand reaching for the jar to slick his cock. He drops his head, carefully lining himself up.

Jim takes a breath at the first breach, finally unwinding his hands from the sheets and carefully placing his fingertips on Bill’s hips, pressing into the soft skin. It hurts, a little bit but not as much as Jim had been mentally prepared for. It’s more of a slight sting, and then a stretch as his body starts to give to accommodate Bill.

Bill kisses him again, deep and long as he oh, so fucking _carefully_ enters him, one tiny, frustrating rock of his hips at a time. Jim tilts his hips up, digs his fingers in to Bill’s skin; words still beyond him as _thathurts_ gives way to _dontstopohgodpleaseilove -_

“Ah!” escapes his throat as Bill’s cock hits the same spot his fingers had been stroking earlier and Jim feels something vital in him unlock completely. He wraps his legs around Bill’s waist and draws his hands up his back, scratching until he settles them at the back of Bill’s neck, tangling his fingers in his hair as Bill begins fucking him in earnest, his eyes fixed on Jim’s face.

And that’s - Bill’s eyes - always guarded, and sometimes shuttered, even with Jim - are as open and clear as Jim’s ever seen them and it almost _hurts_ having that scrutiny focused on him - but then Bill kisses him again, groaning into his mouth; the vibrations of his voice making Jim feel like he’s going to shake apart.

“Bill, Bill, fuck I’m close - _Bill_ ”.

“Jim, Jim I - ”

Words get lost, tangled in arms and legs, hearts beating too fast out of time as Bill comes, his head buried in Jim’s neck, and it feels … strange; warm almost and wet; foreign like an invasion but perfect, as though all the parts of Jim’s life have slotted into place at once.

He’s _desperate_ too, though; right on the edge, and he reaches between them, where his cock is hard and trapped. He slips his hand in the tight space, curls his fingers and brings himself off, half-sobbing, drawing in ragged breaths as he spills over his hand and both their stomachs.

They lie tangled for a while, content to be close and bearing each other’s weight. Bill pulls out gently and Jim’s surprised to see that the sun is just setting, painting Bill’s room in shades of evening-yellow. He feels as though years should have passed. Decades.

He feels old and young all at once as Bill presses small, close-mouthed kisses to his shoulder and neck, skidding his fingers over Jim’s thighs until he obligingly opens them, hissing a small breath as Bill presses a finger gently against his swollen hole. He’s wet, and a little bit uncomfortable but he can’t muster the energy to care, or move.

“So open for me,” Bill says, his voice soft and somehow surprised. Jim wants to say, yes, always, but holds back, folding his bottom lip under his teeth to stop the traitorous words coming out.

Instead, he aims for light, and hope he doesn’t miss entirely. “I may never move again,” he says, but his voice still sounding dry and tight. Bill doesn’t seem to notice, and just laughs against his shoulder, idly rubbing his thumb in small circles, streaking his come over the tender skin of Jim’s inner thigh.

“Not sure how I’d explain that to the others,” Bill says softly, his eyes still clear and unguarded, watching Jim with obvious affection. Jim gives into his impulse and stretches, feeling like a cat, suddenly, basking in a particularly warm patch of sunlight.

Bill blinks, and - just like the sun on a cloudy day - the warmth is shuttered again. Jim feels a shiver go through him at that - and he tells himself that it’s just the aftermath of Bill finally fucking him after so many weeks of teasing, of grasping hands and gasping mouths …

Years later, on the steps of a caravan in the middle of nowhere unable to stop the tumble of memories and nostalgia, Jim tells himself the same thing as the memory of this day - this one, perfect day with Bill, crashes into him like an earthquake, leaving him weak and shaken in its wake.

For now, by mutual silent agreement, they resettle on the bed until Jim’s head is resting on Bill’s chest and he counts his heartbeats; wondering how many more heartbeats there will be before the world outside Oxford pulls Bill away from him.

He feels Bill’s hand brush over his back, his fingertips playing the prominent knobs of his spine like an old, favourite melody.

Jim feels his shoulders relax, and lets his eyes close. He shifts, because he’s sore, and they’re going to regret not moving now in a few hours, but that’s all right he thinks, vaguely because if Bill’s flatmates are out they can share a shower …

Whatever else is out there for them - and it’s impossible to tell, with the dreaming spires whispering its dreams to you all day and every night - for right now in Bill’s room that feels like sunlight and long evenings and smells like sweat and sex - everything is about as perfect as it can be.


End file.
